


the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row

by softhan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhan/pseuds/softhan
Summary: Hannibal is having a rough time recovering from his injuries post-fall, and retreats into himself to avoid confrontation with Will while he's still weak and ill. Having to play happy husbands hardly helps
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 205
Kudos: 779





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time in the making and is finished; I will be publishing chapters twice a week
> 
> It covers some very brutal and gross aspects of the recovery from an abdominal gunshot wound, so if you have issues with graphic depictions of vomit or shit this is probably not for you. I will warn for the particularly gross scene but there are references to both throughout
> 
> thanks to [DreamerInSilico](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico) and [whitling](http://whitling.tumblr.com) for reading this over for me and telling me it deserved to be published despite not being my usual thing
> 
> Title is from Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie

Hannibal is in the kitchen when he sees the small calico cat leap up on the windowsill behind the sink. She makes eye contact with him for a solid thirty seconds and then curls up to take a nap. She’s still there, fur pressed flat against the glass, when he finishes his cleaning and leaves for another part of the house, but gone by the time he comes back to make dinner.

He doesn’t tell Will, though he isn’t sure why; they haven’t had a lot of excitement in the few weeks they’ve been here, and while Will has found work at the local boatyard Hannibal still cannot manage a full day of activity without needing to rest. He is not as young as he once was, and the gunshot wound in his abdomen was no minor injury, especially not combined with the damage he sustained in the fall from the cliff. He knows his recovery will take time.

It’s left him with a dearth of conversational topics, however. He spends his days in their home, and each has been much the same as the last. Will takes their dog, Kirk, to work with him, and comes home with stories of the boats he’s worked on and the people he’s observed. He likes mechanic work, and Hannibal can see why it suits him—he uses his hands, not his mind, and does not have to feign sociability. He can observe without truly being seen himself, as has always been his preference.

Will had also lived a life for the three years that Hannibal was in prison, and while he is hesitant to tell stories of his wife and son, he has many anecdotes about the dogs and the weather in Maine. Hannibal spent those years in his mind palace, and is loath to discuss what things he dwelled on there.

He had assumed he was simply waiting for an interesting thing to happen, and yet. Perhaps the appearance of a cat is not remarkable enough to merit sharing.

“This is the third time Mrs. Pritchers has called me out to work on one of her boats, and there wasn’t anything wrong with it! This time it started first try, had gas and everything!” Will is saying as they eat dinner.

“Perhaps it isn’t her boat motor that she wants to be seeing you for,” Hannibal says with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, because we all know I’m such great company.” Will rolls his eyes. “I imagine she’s just lonely. She’s been all alone out there since her husband died and I’m the only one new and foolish enough to still make the drive every time she calls.”

“We should invite her to dinner,” Hannibal suggests.

Will looks suspicious. “This isn’t some paranoia thing, is it? You’re not suggesting we kill an old woman just because she’s taken an interest in me?”

“I’m genuinely suggesting we have her over socially. You say she’s lonely; I could use an excuse to do something different for dinner. Although I admit to some concern, my intention is merely to gain information and extend hospitality.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Will still seems uncertain.

Hannibal has to work to keep his frustration in check. “My stamina is improving daily. I’m confident I can manage a few hours of social contact, Will.”

“Okay,” Will says. Hannibal can’t read his tone. “I’ll call her tomorrow, then. I’m sure she’d love to meet my elusive husband.”

Hannibal keeps himself from sighing. _Husband_ , indeed. Will barely allows Hannibal to touch him to do physical therapy on his shoulder. “Invite her on Friday, if she’s available. I’ll need a few days to prepare.”

“Sure,” Will says, and then gives a little half smile. “Maybe it’ll be good for you to have company.”

“Perhaps so,” Hannibal says, and tries to avoid thinking about how badly he wants it, and what it means that Will seems to know anyway.

  
  


He spends the next two days cleaning and straightening and rearranging everything in the areas of the house their guest is likely to visit. It should only have taken a few hours at most, and he is, once again, frustrated by his limitations. Part way through he realizes that he needs to move the dining table a foot to the left to have the centerpiece catch the light correctly, and that it is far too heavy for his torn abdominal muscles to tolerate him even attempting such a thing.

He’ll have to get Will to help him. He hates having to need anything at all, and has been doing his best to be as little a burden as possible to Will, but he can’t do this and it needs to be done. 

Will agrees readily enough once he gets home, but Hannibal has had to waste most of the last three hours waiting for him, and he’s done enough that he’s in a considerable amount of pain.

“I really think it would have been fine where it was,” Will says as he carefully shoves the table into position. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Hannibal is struck with a sudden and overwhelming urge to burst into tears like a frustrated child, or scream. He takes a second to tamp it down before he speaks. “I would like our home to meet certain standards before having guests. You know how important hospitality is to me, and many of these are things I’ve been meaning to get to regardless.”

“Well, let me know if you need any other help, I guess. Do you want me to pick up anything tomorrow?”

“Only our guest,” Hannibal says. “I am capable of going grocery shopping on my own.”

“I know you are, I just don’t want you to set yourself back by overexerting.” Will sounds concerned, and it grates.

“I’ll manage, thank you.”

Will sighs heavily. “Okay. Is there anything else you need right now?”

“I believe this was everything.”

Will sighs again, and then leaves Hannibal alone. Hannibal could almost pretend he was pleased by it.

  
  


The grocery shopping isn’t entirely a disaster, but it’s a near miss. The gunshot wound he sustained penetrated his lower intestine, and as a result he has continued to have gastrointestinal issues even though the perforation itself has healed. Today he’s been having unpleasant cramps in his guts all morning, which culminate in an abrupt and urgent bout of diarrhea that has him abandoning his shopping basket and running across the store to the restroom. He barely makes it; his pants are clean, but his underwear isn’t salvageable.

He’s had to start keeping a change of clothes in his car in case of incidents like this—this wasn’t even a particularly bad one, although it’s more than enough to leave him feeling completely disgusting.

It’s nearly unbearable to have such a lack of control over his body, but no amount of willpower can overcome the reflexes of his extremely irritated bowels. He’d thought he was past the point of feeling shame about anything—and that’s perhaps not entirely the right word for the feeling this inspires in him—but it is an aggressive and exceedingly unpleasant reminder that his body is just as mortal and fallible as anyone else’s. He’s only had one full on public accident, but that was sufficiently mortifying that he very nearly decided never to go back to the store it happened in. He can’t stand the helplessness and vulnerability of it. 

But shopping for their meals has been his one small freedom in the weeks they’ve been here—it’s a small enough task that he’s capable of doing it without noticing his fatigue and lack of strength, most of the time his guts don’t cause him problems, and it’s the only time he really gets out of their home and around other living beings. That’s precious enough to him these days that in the end it’s not worth giving up, even to save his pride. 

He never would have expected isolation to be so distressing to him, but it makes sense: the combination of years isolated in the BSHCI and being unable to pursue many of his favored pastimes due to something as banal as physical illness was bound to leave him desperate for any stimulating outlet he can find.

Will seems content enough. He has his work five days a week and goes fishing on the weekends. It seems that everyone here has a boat and that someone always needs something; Will comes home tired, but he always speaks about his day with a satisfying sense of accomplishment. He eats dinner with Hannibal, takes the dog for a walk, lets Hannibal manipulate his shoulder, and then retires to his room for the evening. In the morning he wakes up, thanks Hannibal for making coffee, and heads out the door with at most a slice of toast. Hannibal has offered to pack him lunches, but Will says he generally isn’t that hungry, and if he is he’ll get something while he’s out. 

Hannibal hasn’t pressed because he isn’t entirely sure he would be allowed. He isn’t sure exactly what he’s allowed at all. They have spoken, of course, about all manner of things, but while Will seems to largely have forgiven him, there’s still a barrier between them. Things are cordial, but the closeness they’d had is missing, more now even than when they first arrived. Will has his routine and it mostly doesn’t include Hannibal. And Hannibal has an empty house, gastrointestinal distress, and this terrible, persistent fatigue.

He hates it. He feels like a housewife waiting at home for his absent spouse, just counting the hours until he sees Will again—and he doesn’t even get the benefits. He sees Will for a few hours a day at most, and half the time Will decides to go to his room and tie flies rather than spend one moment longer than necessary in Hannibal’s company. 

The worst part is that he understands. Will has every reason to be distant and every reason to want to avoid him. He has no leg to stand on to ask Will for anything; Will has already given him so much. Will is there with him, sharing his home, building a life as Hannibal’s husband. Hannibal could not bear him leaving again, and so he will be content with what he has. He must.

He can’t say that he’s actually looking forward to having Mrs. Pritchers over, but he will admit that once he starts cooking he feels the scream that has been building in his ribcage a little bit less. His guts seem to have settled, and he’s always enjoyed cooking for new people. It’s nice to see the home looking put together as well, and he’s glad he went to the trouble. 

He’s putting the finishing touches on a sauce to go with the meat he has roasting in the oven when he sees the cat again. There’s a flicker of orange in the corner of his eye, and when he looks up she’s curled on the windowsill again, back crushed against the window. The window faces southwest, and the last light of the day catches on her colorful fur, leaving an odd-shaped shadow. Hannibal finds himself smiling as he finishes preparing the meal.

She leaps down abruptly the instant Will’s car can be heard coming up the drive. Hannibal washes his hands and puts on his jacket before going to greet them at the door.

Will smiles when he sees him, a little too wide to be entirely real. “Mrs. Pritchers, I’d like you to meet my husband, François. François, this is Mrs. Pritchers.”

The widow Pritchers is a small, round woman, with lines on her face that speak of more smiles than frowns. Hannibal reaches for her hand and she clutches at it rather than shaking. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pritchers. John’s told me a lot about you.” 

“Oh, please, call me Emilia, dear. I must have told your husband that a thousand times.” She allows Will to take her coat, and continues, “I must say I was surprised to be invited into your home. John’s been very firm about how much you value your privacy.”

Hannibal files that away for later and pastes on a friendly smile. “My health is not what it once was, I’m afraid, but I have always loved cooking for company. My husband worries too much about me.”

Emilia’s smile widens. “They’ll do that, husbands.” She follows him to the dining room, and looks pleased when he pulls out her chair for her. “John told me something about your accident, what a terrible thing. It was a drunk driver that took my son from me, you know.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hannibal tells her, and then excuses himself to retrieve the meal. 

  
  


The dinner is going as smoothly as Hannibal could have hoped. Emilia Pritchers is a talkative woman, and despite the banality of the conversation it is at least a change of pace. She has a certain kind of intelligence and flawless manners that Hannibal can appreciate, and she makes Will smile more than Hannibal has seen in years. The smile is different now, twisted by the scar on his cheek, but it is still Will’s smile, and Hannibal has missed it. 

Hannibal has to be careful about what he eats—his gastrointestinal issues have been helped slightly to be on a more limited diet—so his plate is missing a few of the components he prepared for the others. It’s for the best, regardless, since whenever he eats too much these days he struggles with extreme nausea, and it’s bad enough to have to run from the table to vomit with only Will there. It’s yet another thing that chafes: Hannibal has long felt comforted by feeling full, and he _hates_ losing food, and now he has a choice between one and the other. He tries to put it out of his mind, and focuses on enjoying the foods he is allowed.

Emilia is too caught up in her own food to notice anything odd about his plate in any case. It’s always gratifying to see someone taste his cooking for the first time, and the look of rapture on her face as she bites into dessert is a balm to his spirits.

“I can’t believe you get to eat like this every night,” Emilia is telling Will. “I can see why you married him.”

Will laughs, and meets Hannibal’s eyes. There’s an intensity there that he doesn’t know how to read. “He’s more than just an amazing cook, although I will admit his food was a big draw, at least at first.”

“At first?” Emilia asks, sensing a story. 

Hannibal considers cutting in, but Will answers her smoothly. “I told you we met at work, right? Well the next week we both had to go to a conference, and he knocked on my hotel room door with breakfast. He probably could’ve invited me to bed right then and I’d have gone.”

“He forgets the part of the story where he answered the door in his underwear,” Hannibal says, to cover his surprise. 

Will, to his delight, blushes. “It was early! I wasn’t awake yet!”

Emilia laughs. “That sounds lovely! It took my Lloyd ages to work up the courage to bring me flowers, much less ask me out.”

“Oh, he fed me for a long time before he worked up the nerve to ask me out,” Will says, and there’s a hint of irony in his eyes as he looks at Hannibal. “I was almost worried we were never going to get there. But I’m glad, I think, that we had a chance to be friends first.”

Hannibal has no idea where this conversation is going or how much of it is just for Emilia’s benefit, but his heart is doing something funny in his chest. “I wouldn’t give up my friendship with you for the world,” he agrees.

“Oh, absolutely,” Emilia says. “Your husband should be your best friend. You have to have more than just lust if you want something that lasts through the hard times, and it’s clear as day that you two have it. It’s something a lot of us heterosexuals miss, I think, in a rush to find someone to have babies with.”

“We’ve certainly had our share of hard times,” Will says soberly. “But we’ve made it here, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Nor I,” Hannibal agrees. He wonders, again, how much of this Will means. “I don’t know where I’d be without him.” 

Will reaches for his hand, and Hannibal is so surprised he almost doesn’t recognize the gesture for what it is. He catches himself before he can flinch, turning his palm up to hold Will’s hand properly. He feels as though his hand is stuck in an electric socket; his brain so attuned to the sensation of Will’s hand in his that it seems so much _more_ than a simple gesture. He’s gone far too long without any kind of affectionate touch.

Emilia smiles at their joined hands. “I’m certainly pleased to have met you both. I wouldn’t have expected such handsome young men to take such an interest in little old me.”

Emilia is, at most, twenty-five years Hannibal’s senior, but he appreciates the sentiment for what it is and smiles at her. “I admit I was curious to meet the woman who convinced my husband to take house calls.”

“It didn’t take a lot of convincing,” she says, smiling at Will. “I called him up and told him I didn’t have a car any longer and he was happy to come out. You’ll have to come see the lake sometime, dear.”

“It’s beautiful,” Will agrees. “And I hardly mind the drive for such lovely company.”

They talk a little longer, and then Emilia suggests that it’s getting late and she’d best be getting home. Hannibal misses the feeling of Will’s hand in his immediately when he lets go to stand. 

Emilia excuses herself to the restroom as they clear the table, leaving Hannibal unexpectedly alone with Will’s too-observant gaze.

“If you’re tired, I can do the dishes when I get home from taking her back,” Will offers gently. “I know this was a lot.”

The scream is abruptly back, pressing at Hannibal’s throat. “I’m fine,” he manages, after slightly too long of a pause.

Will’s face shutters. “Okay.” He sighs. “Thank you for playing nice tonight.”

“Thank you for suggesting it.”

Will cocks his head. “I don’t think I did.”

Hannibal just looks at him. “Didn’t you?”

Their eyes meet, and Hannibal can see Will trying to find the words to say something. Before he does they both hear a toilet flush, and Will sags, turning and heading to the door instead. Hannibal follows a half step behind.

Emilia hugs him before she leaves, and he finds himself pleased. She smells like apples and coconut oil and the dinner they’d just eaten. 

Will just clasps his arm and says, “I should be home in less than an hour.”

Hannibal does the dishes, and feeds Kirk. He considers taking the dog on his evening walk, but Will will be home soon and Hannibal is tired. He’s done too much, and he knows he should have accepted Will’s offer of help, knows Will knows this and will be displeased, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea of having to see the look that he knows Will will give him. Instead he goes upstairs and shuts himself in his bedroom. He means to read or sketch, as it’s only nine, but in the end his eyes are heavy and he just goes to bed. He’s asleep before Will gets back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this isn't the gross chapter (content warnings for vomit and blood)

The cat comes back two days later. This time he sees her out the living room window when he comes down from his shower after breakfast—there’s a rectangle of sunlight still on the porch, and she’s sprawled in the middle of it with her belly up, looking totally at peace. He shifts one of the armchairs so he can watch her from it, and he’s pleased both by the cat’s visit and the fact that he moved a piece of furniture without distress. 

She’s a very beautiful cat. Most of her belly is white, except for the lower left side, which is orange. She has a striped brown splotch on the inside of her neck, and her nose is half orange and half black. He’ll draw her like this later, he decides. Perhaps a comparison between her and the dog at repose. 

The sprawling oak trees in their yard mean the porch only gets sun in the earlier part of the morning, and she leaves soon after it’s gone, seeking out warmth elsewhere. Hannibal misses her immediately.

  
  


Will comes home that night in an odd mood—truly, he’s been in an odd mood since Emilia’s visit, but Hannibal has been wary of asking what’s wrong. He seemed to be thinking something over.

“What did you think of Mrs. Pritchers? Really?” Will asks as they’re finishing their dinner.

“I thought she was acceptably diverting company. I don’t particularly want to kill her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Will shakes his head. “Well, if you did want to kill her I would certainly want to know, but that wasn’t what I was thinking. I was wondering how you’d feel about going to visit her for me this week.”

Hannibal considers. He thinks he could manage it physically, and he knows that it will help him to get out of the house, but it feels unpleasantly like Will is setting him up on a playdate. “I wouldn’t necessarily mind spending more time with her, but I’m afraid my boat repair skills are somewhat lacking.”

Will snorts. “She doesn’t want me to fix her boat, Hannibal. She wants someone to sit with her for an hour and remind her that she isn’t the only living person in the world.” 

“I could probably manage that.”

Will smiles, a real smile, the smile Hannibal has missed. “Thank you. I’ll let her know you’d like to come visit her and get back to you—it’s a bit of a drive, but her property really is lovely if you’re up for a walk down to the lake.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hannibal says.

  
  


Later that night Hannibal is sitting on the sofa by the fire sketching when Will comes into the living room with a book. He expects that Will will sit in one of the armchairs, or perhaps, if he’s lucky, on the other end of the sofa. Instead Will sits down right next to him. Hannibal is very conscious of the inch of space between their bodies.

“What are you drawing?”

Hannibal tilts his sketchbook to show him, and Will leans further into his space to see. Their sides are pressed together and Hannibal feels very, very warm. He wants to lean into Will, he wants to wrap an arm around him and draw him closer, he wants this closeness to last. It does not. Will stays long enough to take in the shape of the cat, and then shifts back away, leaving a careful distance between them.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a cat person,” Will says.

“I like animals,” Hannibal says. “I have a whole sketchbook full of dogs, as well.”

“I’m sure Kirk is a great model.”

“Not as good as you,” Hannibal says, and then immediately wishes that he hadn’t.

Will’s eyebrows shoot up. “I wasn’t aware that I’d been modeling.”

Well, there’s no taking it back now. “I’ve always enjoyed drawing your face.”

“I’m sure you like it even more now that it’s so _interesting_.” The scar is still vaguely red, but it’s actually healing fairly well; it is visible, but not gruesome, despite what Will seems to think.

“I suspect that I would enjoy drawing you whatever you looked like, Will.”

Will looks thoughtful, and then leans back, settling in. “Do you mind if I stay here and read?”

“You’re more than welcome,” Hannibal says. He tries to go back to his drawing, but he’s lost his focus. Instead he sits quietly and listens to the soft sounds Will makes as he reads, feeling more at peace than he has since they’ve come here.

  
  


The next morning Hannibal puts out food for the cat. He doesn’t see her, but when he brings the bowl in that evening it’s empty.

  
  


On Wednesday, Hannibal goes to see Emilia Pritchers. He’s feeling pretty good as he preps something to bring for lunch; less pain than he’s had, and more energy than is usual. The last few days have been good with regard to his digestive issues as well, and he has hope that he may be reaching the end of that particular trial. 

Will has given him directions, and he’s grateful for them as he turns off the paved road onto a winding gravel drive. He can imagine how isolating it would be, to live this far out with no way to transport yourself. 

Her house is white, and the sort that appears to have a second story tucked up under the rafters despite its small size. It’s absolutely surrounded by flowers; it’s April, and everything is beginning to bloom. 

Emilia greets him at the door with another hug, and he returns it quickly, pleased to have ingratiated himself so easily. 

“It’s good to see you, dear,” she says as she steps back. “John asked if I wouldn’t mind you stopping by today, and I admit I was excited.”

“I thought I’d bring you lunch,” Hannibal says, smiling. “It was lovely to meet you last week and it seemed as if you might appreciate the company.”

“Oh, I do,” Emilia agrees, leading him into the house. She takes his bag from him in the kitchen and closes her eyes as she inhales. “As if anyone could refuse an offer of your delicious food. It’s a wonder you’re both so thin.”

“The trick is not eating less, but eating better,” Hannibal tells her. She hands him plates and he arranges the food on them as she brings forks and knives over to the little table in the corner of the room. 

“I appreciate you coming all this way,” she says as they sit down to eat. She takes a bite of her food and stops to savor it. “This is absolutely fantastic. Did you go to culinary school?”

Hannibal chuckles and shakes his head. “I simply have a great deal of practice.”

“It’s more than that,” she insists. “I have a lot of practice in the kitchen, but I couldn’t turn out something like this. It’s a gift.”

“Perhaps so. Cooking is something that has brought me comfort throughout my life, and I find it a useful way of exercising my creativity.”

“I’m sure John appreciates that.”

“He’s perfectly capable of holding his own in the kitchen,” Hannibal says. “We’ve often cooked together, although not recently.”

Emilia gives him a long, thoughtful look. “Perhaps you should suggest it to him.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal agrees, and takes another bite of food.

  
  


After lunch, she takes him down to the lake. It is indeed very beautiful, and the weather is fair, so he’s happy to sit with her on a bench looking out over the water and listen to her talk about her past.

“Things were never really the same between Lloyd and I after Daniel died,” she’s saying. “It was hard to know what to say to each other. And then he got sick, and I lost him too, and I wished I had found the words.”

“Traumatic loss can create barriers that are difficult to surmount,” Hannibal says, and thinks of Abigail. 

  
  


She sends him home before too long, telling him she knows his husband worries too much about his health but she doesn’t want to be the cause of any more of it. She hugs him again when he leaves, and makes him promise to come back soon. He agrees, and is grateful to have gone. 

  


* * *

  


He’s been leaving a dish of cat food on the porch every day for a week when he sees the cat again. She’s been eating the food, but this is the first time he’s been in the living room in time to catch her in the act. She looks up when she finishes and meets his eyes. Hers are very green. 

  
  


“I saw Mrs. Pritchers today,” Will tells Hannibal over dinner that night. “She asked how you were doing and I realized I didn’t really know. How are you? Really?”

“I’m fine.”

Will sighs. “I am genuinely asking. I don’t know what you expect me to do, here.”

“What do you mean?”

Will runs a hand through his hair. “I can see that you’re upset. I can see that you’re tired, but every time I offer to help, you act like I’ve pissed in your soup. You barely speak to me, and when you do, most of the time it’s to snap at me that you’re fine. I figured it wasn’t really going to help anything to call you out on that too hard—I am trying not to piss you off—but god, Hannibal. What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Hannibal says. 

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

“It’s not _you_ that I have a problem with, Will.” He sighs. “This wasn’t how I’d imagined our time together. I am tired, and I’m frustrated by my inability to do the things I’d prefer to.”

“I think you should go see a doctor, go to the hospital, something,” Will says after a moment. “I’m concerned that you aren’t feeling better, and you did that surgery yourself. I know you know your medical stuff, but you aren’t able to see inside your own guts, and you know better than I do all the complications that can arise from a poorly healed abdominal wound.”

Hannibal blinks at him. “Going to a hospital is a risk I don’t know that we can afford.”

“You dropping dead isn’t a risk we can afford!” Will shouts, and then looks startled at himself, taking a deep breath. “Look, this isn’t what I imagined either. But just because we aren’t working out doesn’t mean that I don’t care what happens to you. I gave up my _life_ for you.”

“You tried to kill both of us less than three months ago.”

Will stands and pinches the bridge of his nose. His voice is wrecked. “I did. But we lived, and we’re here, and we’re making a life together, and I can’t—I can’t do this without you. There’s no point to any of this without you. All the goddamn shit that I have gone through to get here, Hannibal. You are not going to fucking leave me now.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Hannibal says quietly, and Will sags forward, resting his hands on the table. “You know I haven’t ever wanted to leave you, Will. I...care about you, I want to be with you. You’re family to me, and I take that very seriously.”

“Then please,” Will says, looking up through his lashes, “at least promise me you’ll go to the hospital if you feel worse.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” Will sighs and straightens up. “I’m going to take Kirk for his walk. I’ll do the dishes if you leave them.”

Will stalks out of the room. Hannibal gets up, and does the dishes.

  
  


He sees the cat almost every day now. Some mornings she’s waiting by the edge of the porch when he goes to put out food for her, but she runs away if he tries to approach her. She likes to lie in front of the window after she eats, and he is steadily filling a sketchbook with all the different poses she strikes. Her fur looks very soft as she stretches in the sun.

  
  


He goes to see Emilia the next week, because he agreed to trade off weekly visits with Will. Things between them have been, if anything, more tense, and Hannibal is still treading carefully.

He woke up feeling poorly, and it has only seemed to get worse as he’s gone about getting ready; he has to catch himself on the wall when a wave of dizziness hits him as he’s walking to the door. It’s bad enough that he contemplates cancelling, but he doesn’t want to upset Will, and it would be rude on such short notice. He’s had days like this before; he’ll be fine.

He hoped the drive would clear his head, but instead the vibration of the car just exacerbates his abdominal pain. He has to excuse himself to the restroom immediately on his arrival, and he doesn’t feel much better after. 

He schools his face into a smile and goes back out anyway. He’s uncomfortable appearing even this vulnerable around a near stranger, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already known he was ill, and he’s confident that even in his condition he has the physical upper hand. He comforts himself by imagining all the different ways he could incapacitate her as he plates their lunch.

Unfortunately, food is the absolute last thing his body wants. He takes a bite and knows immediately that it was a mistake: his stomach lurches, and the room spins a little as his pain spikes.

He has no idea what Emilia has been saying, but she cuts herself off mid sentence to ask, “Are you all right, dear? You’ve gone quite pale.”

He opens his mouth to tell her he’s fine, and then promptly shuts it again, clamping a hand over it before leaping across the room and emptying the contents of his stomach into the sink. 

His vomit looks like coffee grounds, and the room won’t stop spinning. He can’t believe this is happening in front of a stranger, this can’t be happening at all, he was getting better, he can’t have just vomited blood in a stranger’s kitchen. He grabs the edge of the sink to keep from pitching forward and fights to control his breathing. 

Emilia is behind him, and he can feel the concern pouring off of her. There’s no choice but to lean into the vulnerability of it. 

“I think I need to lie down,” he says, not having to feign the weakness in his voice. 

“The couch is closest,” Emilia offers. She wraps an arm around his waist as she leads him to the living room.

The room doesn’t stop spinning even once he’s horizontal, but at least he isn’t going to fall over. He’s anxious and, he realizes slowly, afraid. He could probably still kill her, but there’s no way he can erase his presence from her home with any efficacy. Cleaning out a garbage disposal is nearly impossible even when he’s well, and he’s just filled hers with his blood.

“Am I calling John or an ambulance?” Emilia asks him once he’s settled. 

“Please, I’ll be fine in a few minutes, just let me rest.” It sounds weaker than he means it to, and he knows it won’t be effective.

“Honey, you just threw up blood in my kitchen sink. Am I calling John, or am I calling an ambulance?” She crosses the room and picks up her phone, holding it out to dial.

Hannibal sighs. He probably shouldn’t be driving like this, but Will will be distressed, and he hates having to rely on him like this. “No ambulance.”

She calls Will. “Hi, John,” she says, and then pauses. “Oh, he’s here. He just vomited blood and now he’s about ten seconds from passing out on my couch.” She pauses again, for longer. “See you soon, dear.” Then, to Hannibal, “He’s on his way. I’ll get you a bucket, just in case.”

He watches her walk out of the room and wonders how this all spun so far out of control. He’s relieved that Will is coming; he hates himself for it, but he’s agitated and he’s ill and Will is the closest thing to safe he has. 

Emilia returns with a glass of water and a large plastic bucket. The idea of vomiting into it is horrifying, and the idea that he might need to sends another frisson of panic up his spine, which isn’t helping the roiling in his intestines. He breathes carefully and tries to distance himself from the situation. How many times has he seen patients like this? The thought is not a comfort.

Will gets there in less than twenty minutes, which means either he was nearby or he sped. Hannibal is so overwhelmed with relief when he sees the familiar face that his eyes water. 

“Oh god,” Will says, face full of emotion. He takes a deep breath. “Can you walk?”

“I think so. I need…” Talking about this should not be so difficult, but finding a clinical headspace is beyond him right now. He forces it out. “Would you help me to the washroom before we go?”

Will’s face spasms. “Of course. Come on, let’s get you up.”

He manages to walk, though he’s mostly leaning on Will as they cross the house to the bathroom. He feels weak in every way, and he hates needing help and he hates that his body is doing this to him and he hates that they still have an audience. He wishes desperately that they could just go, but his intestines are cramping horribly; it’s an effort to hold on long enough to get to the bathroom here, so he certainly wouldn’t be able to make it all the way home. Not that Will will be willing to take him home instead of the hospital after this. 

“Do you need me to come in with you?” Will asks. There’s no judgment in his eyes of any kind, just intense concern. 

“I’ll be alright.” 

“Don’t lock the door,” Will says.

Hannibal forgoes a retort about his ability to use a toilet by himself only because the urgency in his bowels really is quite pressing.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need further help. But when he gets up, the toilet looks full of blood, and that means he really does need to go to the hospital.

Will is waiting outside the door, and he wraps an arm around Hannibal’s waist immediately when he sways. Hannibal leans into him and tries to take comfort in his familiar scent.

“We’re going to go to the hospital,” Will says, in a tone that brooks no argument. 

Hannibal nods, and lets Will lead him toward the door. 

“We’ll be back for his car when we can,” Will says to Emilia. “Thank you for calling me. Will you watch Kirk for me until I can come back for him tonight? I don’t want to make François spend more time in a car than he has to.”

She nods, and hands him the bucket with an understanding look. “Don’t worry about it, we’re not going anywhere. You just focus on taking care of him.”

“I’m trying,” Will says, and leads them out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emilia is one of the loveliest characters I've ever created, and she is not going to die, no matter what Hannibal may have been thinking about


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains The Gross Scene and can be skipped if necessary. Summary and more detailed explanation of what I mean by "gross scene" in the end notes—PLEASE do not read this if you are bothered by what is described there, it is as graphic as can be done in writing.

Will gets Hannibal settled with the bucket in the passenger seat of his car and then goes to get Hannibal’s emergency bag out of his trunk. It has passports for both of them in case something goes wrong, and it has a change of clothes for Hannibal in case something else goes wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal says as Will gets in next to him. 

Will closes the door and starts the engine. “I told you you needed to go to the hospital.” He sighs. “What do I need to do to minimize risk, here?”

Hannibal considers. “It would probably be best to drive into Vancouver: further from our home, and far more populated. I’m concerned about someone at the county hospital taking too much note of the brand on my back.”

Will nods. “Are you going to be okay going that far? I know being in the car is shit for abdominal pain.”

Hannibal avoids thinking about _why_ Will knows that, because he needs all his emotional energy to hold himself something like together. “I’ll let you know if I need to stop, but the temporary avoidance of distress is not worth risking our safety.”

“Okay. You’ll need to look up directions, I don’t know anything more than ‘Vancouver is mostly west’.”

Looking at his phone in the moving car isn’t ideal when he’s already so nauseated, but Hannibal manages. He directs Will to the highway and then puts the phone down, since the next direction isn’t for quite a few kilometers.

“Do you want me to come in with you, when we get there?” Will asks. “Or do you think it would be better if I didn’t?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it will make much difference. I’d prefer to have you with me, if you’re willing to be.” Hannibal has to clench his hand into a tight enough fist that his nails dig into his palms to be able to speak in anything like a normal voice. Even then, he doesn’t entirely succeed.

“You’re scared,” Will says, sounding shocked.

Hannibal doesn’t answer, looking out the window without seeing it. He is scared, and it’s not helping the pain he’s in at all. 

“You’ve been scared this whole time, haven’t you? You hate letting people see you genuinely vulnerable, I knew that, but I hadn’t thought…” He shakes his head. “Of course I’ll stay with you. If it helps to have me there I’ll be there.”

Hannibal isn’t really up to maintaining a conversation, and fortunately Will seems to understand that. All his concentration is focused on containing the pain in his guts and analyzing whether it’s thinking about moving up or down. 

It probably isn’t helping to focus on it, but he’d like as much warning as he can get if they’re going to need to stop. They’re on a road neither of them is familiar with, and it’s impossible to guess how far apart potential restrooms are. Or even simply places one can safely pull over: he’s given up on being picky about anything that saves him from soiling his pants.

He’s in so much pain today; it’s definitely the worst day he’s had since he was well enough to stand. His earlier trips to the bathroom were inspired less by actual unstoppable pressure and more by pain, which he’s hoping means that if those cramps start again he’ll be able to wait at least a few minutes. He managed to hold it for ten minutes on a gravel road this morning, after all. That should be plenty of time to find a place to stop, and he’s sure Will will do his best to stop quickly. The fact that Hannibal isn’t having to drive should give them an extra minute or two of grace, also: he won’t have to focus on anything but controlling his body.

He can feel the pain shifting and twisting as his stomach gurgles unpleasantly; something is definitely going to want out soon, but he still can’t tell what direction things are moving, and by now they should only be fifteen minutes or so from their destination. He probably couldn’t go now if he tried, and it seems ridiculous to stop and just sit and wait and hope something happens when he easily might have been fine the rest of the way. 

He didn’t account for how bad traffic would get when they reached the edge of the city. There must be a collision of some sort ahead of them: they’ve gone perhaps 200 yards in the last five minutes, and there’s no sign of whatever is causing the slow down. 

He might have been fine until they got to the hospital, if it had taken the fifteen minutes his phone said. But sitting and not moving is increasing his anxiety, which in turn is increasing the churning in his guts: it’s maybe another five minutes before they inform him that he needs a bathroom, _now._

“Will,” he says, and then sinks his teeth into his lip as an incredibly intense and painful wave of pressure runs through him.

Will glances over at him, and then around at the solid walls of traffic on either side of them, and says, rather eloquently, “ _Fuck_.”

There’s absolutely nothing to be done. They’re in the middle lane and so can’t pull over, and even if the road were moving Hannibal only has about ninety seconds before he’s going to lose it. This is not a battle he’s going to win. 

All he can think is that he really doesn’t want to ruin the seat of Will’s car. He twists around and grabs the blanket Will keeps in the backseat for Kirk to lie on, stuffing it beneath himself just as another wave hits him. He bites his lip and sinks his nails into his palms, but this time it’s not enough. He feels it pushing out of him, spreading and squishing revoltingly with a wet squelch that seems impossibly loud in the quiet car. 

The smell is immediately overwhelmingly noxious, and that’s just the cue that his nausea needed to be pushed over the edge: he curls over the bucket and vomits as another wave of diarrhea floods into his pants. The feeling is so incomparably vile that he retches again, bile burning his throat—there’s already nothing of substance left in his stomach, but that doesn’t seem to matter as it heaves again and again, in time with the seemingly unending pulsing cramps in his bowels.

He feels like he’s dying, and he cannot imagine a worse way to go.

After what feels like an eternity, it finally passes. He retches one final unproductive time and then straightens up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand as he attempts to take stock of the situation. Will has rolled all the windows down, but the stink of feces and vomit and blood is overpowering; the bucket has done a good job of containing his sick, but the rest is an absolute disaster. Some of the mess has gone up the back of his shirt, and he can feel what’s in his pants still spreading as it slowly soaks into the blanket under him. Sitting in it is unpleasant in the extreme.

He can’t look at Will. There’s no reaction to this that Will might have that Hannibal could handle right now. He can’t even really handle what just happened: every other time anything like this has happened, he’s been alone—or at least not with anyone he was beholden to interact with in the aftermath. And it’s never been as bad as this, and he’s certainly never been in someone else’s car when it happened, and there is no one else in the world whose opinion matters to Hannibal half as much as Will Graham’s. The idea of Will being disgusted by him is completely terrifying, but what other reaction is there? He’s sitting in his own waste, with a bucket of vomit on his lap. He is disgusting. 

“Well,” Will says, “I guess it’s good I’m not a sympathetic puker.”

Hannibal closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, throat raw from vomiting.

“Don’t apologize, christ. _I’m_ sorry.” Will takes a deep shaky breath. “What can I do? What do you need?”

What he needs is a shower, but he’s not likely to get one any time soon. It takes longer than it should to corral his mortification and self-repulsion enough to think about what needs to happen next. “I have a change of clothes in the bag I had you take from my car,” he says finally. “Do you have a towel?”

“I have a real towel, and I have paper towels and wet wipes. Where do you want me to go?”

“Pull over when you can. I’m in no state to try to walk to a bathroom.” In any sense. He feels even dizzier now than he had at Emilia’s, and his pants are absolutely ruined. He hates the idea of being so exposed, but if they open both the car doors there should be at least some cover.

Another small eternity later, traffic begins to move more smoothly and they’re able to make it onto the shoulder. Will gets out and grabs the supplies out of the trunk before coming around and opening Hannibal’s door.

He takes the bucket from Hannibal and asks, “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t want to ruin my shoes.” Hannibal feels impossibly helpless, and he still can’t make himself look at Will’s face directly. 

Will nods. “I’ll take them off for you,” he says, and then kneels on the asphalt expectantly. 

Hannibal swings his legs out of the car, and by the time he’s contained the swell of nausea induced by the repellent sensation of shifting against his mess, Will has his shoes and socks off and set carefully aside. 

He really very much does not want to stand; he knows it’s all going to come sliding down his legs, and that sounds unbearable.

“Come on,” Will says, terribly gentle. He’s still kneeling by Hannibal’s feet. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean. Sitting in it is only going to make this worse.”

Hannibal shakes his head. He knows Will is right, but he can’t do this in front of him. He’s too terrified of rejection to let Will be here for this; he really thinks he might die if Will were to be repulsed, and he _will_ be repulsed, because Hannibal is utterly repulsive.

Will doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then he stands. He leans forward and rests a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Hannibal. Let me help.”

Hannibal wants to cry. He can’t take this tenderness on top of everything else; it feels remarkably similar to getting shot. The only thing keeping him from physically shoving Will away is the fact that the idea of losing Will is even more unbearable.

He’s so overwhelmed that his stomach can’t handle it; he feels another swell of nausea rise in his throat and has just enough time to turn his face away from Will before he’s losing another torrent of bile onto the pavement. 

He closes his eyes and wishes for death, rather than having to experience another second of this. 

He feels Will’s hands on his face, gently wiping the edge of his mouth with a piece of paper towel. And then Will’s hands on his hands, gently pulling, trying to get him to stand. He resists, but only for a moment: if Will is going to insist on doing this, then Hannibal is certainly not going to be able to stop him in his current condition.

He nearly vomits again at the feeling of feces running down the backs of his legs, but he manages to swallow it down. It’s a little bit easier to handle this with his eyes closed; he doesn’t have to be quite as present, and he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally seeing an expression on Will’s face.

He can hear Will’s exhalation of alarm when he sees the mess, however, and that isn’t much better. He flinches away from Will when he hears it, smacking his elbow on the side of the car.

“Hey, no,” Will says. “There’s a lot of blood. I’m worried about you, and I definitely should have made you go to the hospital sooner. That’s all I’m upset about.”

Hannibal shakes his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Will sighs. “I have literally put my hand inside your body and held your intestines, Hannibal. I can handle a little shit. This isn’t going to be half as difficult to clean up as some of the things I’ve had to deal with with the dogs. The blanket was a good idea.”

“I’m sorry I ruined it.” Hannibal’s voice is rough, and it sounds smaller than he’d like it to.

“It’s a dog blanket, half its job is protecting the upholstery. I’d say it died valiantly in the line of duty.” Will puts a hand on Hannibal’s arm. “May I help you get undressed?”

Hannibal wants to say no, is still fighting against the idea of letting Will see him like this at all, but Will is right: he has already seen Hannibal in compromising situations, he has already cleaned Hannibal’s naked body of blood. The fact that Hannibal was too badly injured to be this aware of it at the time doesn’t change the fact that it happened. And Hannibal is so dizzy and so nauseated at the moment that he isn’t sure he’ll be able to do this on his own… he nods. 

Will ends up doing most of it, really; when Hannibal tries to bend over he nearly falls, and after that Will very much takes charge.

The intimacy of it is overwhelming. It brings to mind that night years ago when he washed Will’s hands; he remembers admonishing Will to remain present, but he finds himself unable to do so himself, giving in to the desperate need to hide from this, if only in his mind. He can’t be there, can’t let himself fully experience Will gently undressing and cleaning him. Not when he knows as soon as this crisis is over they’ll both retreat back into the distance that has become the norm. He can’t know what it feels like to let Will take care of him if he isn’t sure he’ll get to keep it; he won’t be able to live without it. And there’s still the acute and overwhelming terror that Will will react negatively. 

Will is quiet as he works, only giving soft directions when he needs Hannibal to move. It makes it easier to stay somewhere far away inside himself, to hide from how helpless he is.

He opens his eyes when Will gently pushes him down to sit back in the car. The seat is clean and he’s wearing his backup clothes; Will is on the ground in front of him carefully sliding his shoes and socks back on. 

Will gets to his feet, and their eyes meet before Hannibal can look away. There’s worry written across every line of Will’s face, but no hint of disgust, no repulsion or rejection or reproach. Hannibal isn’t sure that’s actually any better than if he had seen any of those things there: now he feels unmoored and uncertain on top of being terrified and ill. He can’t deal with Will acting this way. He can’t even begin to process it. 

Will reaches out and squeezes his shoulder gently before handing him the emptied bucket and walking back around to his side of the car, and it’s all Hannibal can do to keep from crying. 

As much as Hannibal would love to retreat into himself for the rest of the ride, they’re close enough now that Will needs directions. The weight of Will not saying anything about what happened is oppressive, but Hannibal is grateful; talking about it would be unbearable.

In the end it takes them just under two hours before they get to the hospital Hannibal found, and he’s very much at the end of his stamina by the time they arrive. Everything else aside, this is more consecutive hours than he’s spent out of the house since they arrived; add that to the emotional turmoil, extreme physical pain, and apparent internal bleeding, and he’s proud of himself for not collapsing the moment he gets out of the car.

They have to wait behind someone to check in once they get there, and standing is mostly beyond Hannibal. Will stays with him, supporting some of his weight and keeping him steady while they wait. He also does as much of the talking as he can when they get to the receptionist, and Hannibal is incredibly grateful. He’s beyond the point of resisting care now. He’s too tired and too sick, and he recognizes that if he didn’t have the support he likely would not be able to do this on his own. If Will abandons him now, he’ll die; that’s hardly news.

They see a triage person relatively quickly, which is fortunate. Hannibal can’t be sure how long he has before his GI tract rebels on him again, and he knows they don’t like patients using the restroom in the ER until they’ve determined if they need samples. 

Will looks progressively more concerned as Hannibal answers the nurse’s questions about how long he’s had which symptoms, and how much pain he’s in. They give the same explanation for the initial wound that they gave to Emilia, a car accident, and say that it was tended to by a surgeon in the States, where they’ve been living until recently. The wound has healed sufficiently that it isn’t immediately identifiable as a bullet hole, at least; that would raise questions Hannibal doesn’t have good answers to, and he’s hardly in any condition to come up with complicated explanations. He just has to hope no one asks about the brand.

He’s given a stool sample collection kit and a basin to vomit into, and told to wait. It’s just after two on a Wednesday, so the ER isn’t packed, but there are several other people waiting, and you never know when someone will come in with an acute emergency. All the same, he hopes they don’t have to wait too long. He’d really like to lie down, at least. Preferably to get to a private room and get some Zofran before he vomits again. He _really_ hates vomiting.

“Can I do anything for you?” Will asks, after about twenty minutes of sitting in silence. “Would a distraction help? Or do you want me to leave you alone?”

Hannibal has to concentrate to find words in English, which isn’t a good sign. At this point he’s too tired to be scared, about that or about anything else. “Would you touch me? It’s grounding, and I’m having difficulty grounding myself.” 

Will’s eyebrows go up. “Sure, of course.” They’re sitting on a bench together, and Will wraps an arm around Hannibal’s shoulders, pulling him to lean against him. “Is this okay?”

Hannibal slumps a little so he can rest his head on Will’s shoulder. Will’s arm is warm, and makes him feel better immediately. “Thank you.”

They stay like that for a long time, and when Hannibal returns from giving his sample, Will folds him right back against his side. 

Eventually exhaustion claims him, and he dozes off in the safety of Will’s embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gross scene description: Hannibal shits himself while vomiting. in Will's car in front of Will. There’s a lot of focus on his mortification and disgust
> 
> Summary: They drive to the hospital, and on the way Hannibal has a really messy accident, which Will helps him clean up from. Will is as comforting as he can be. They arrive at the hospital and check in and Hannibal falls asleep on Will's shoulder


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My 73 yo friend Donna helped me write several of the scenes in this chapter, although tragically I could not work in her suggestion of saying “he’s gotten past his Mr. Macho crap” within the actual narrative. Know it’s there in my heart

Will shakes Hannibal awake when the nurse finally calls his name, and the disorientation of having taken an impromptu nap doesn’t mix very well with the intensity of the attending doctor’s concern. They get him into a gown and do a rectal exam fairly quickly, and Hannibal hates the exposure of the whole thing as much as he’s agitated by the briskness.

At least he does end up getting intravenous Zofran reasonably quickly, but it’s only because they want him to drink oral CT contrast and the first time he tries it comes back up immediately.

It both helps and makes it worse that Will is there: when Will can touch him, he feels better. When the nurses and doctors are there and Will is just watching, Hannibal feels again that terrible urge to cower away from him, to hide. In the end he thinks balance comes out on comfort—they spend a lot of time waiting, and the only thing that keeps Hannibal from falling down the well of darkness in his mind is Will’s hand in his. The fear that had bled out of him is back with a vengeance now that he’s not quite as exhausted: he knows this is a risk, and he also knows he’s far too ill to be able to do anything about that.

After hours of mostly waiting, he gets admitted. They want him to have an endoscopy and colonoscopy in the morning, and they aren’t confident enough that he’s stable to send him home. They’ve done a number of other tests, but haven’t found any obvious source of the bleeding: that could mean it’s simply severe inflammation, or it could mean that there’s something more serious that’s not showing up on a scan. Even the inflammation alone is a concerning prospect—he’s lost enough blood that they’re giving him iron supplements, and an IV for hydration. 

He also has to do a rapid colonoscopy prep, which is utterly miserable. Will leaves to go get the dog settled for the night before it gets too bad, and Hannibal is mostly grateful to not have a witness to that. But he isn’t entirely alone, and it’s worse with the nurses. 

He wonders if Will will let him kill them, later, when he’s well. He wonders if he’ll do it anyway. Better to seek forgiveness than permission, after all. Not too soon, of course. He doesn’t want to disrupt the life they’re building here if it can be avoided, especially not when things have been going so well for Will here.

By ten he’s through the worst of it and contemplating trying to sleep. There’s always an early start in hospitals, and someone coming in every few hours to check vitals. It’s best to rest while he can. But he slept some that afternoon, and he’s anxious here, alone and sick; he doesn’t want to give up the tenuous grasp on control he has. 

There’s a knock at the door, and then it opens. Hannibal expects another nurse, but instead it’s Will, looking vaguely uncertain of his welcome as he shuts the door behind him. “Hey,” he says. “I thought you might want me to stay? Or that I should at least offer. Either way I figured you’d want your phone charger, and I brought the sketchbook and pencils from the living room.”

After everything today, it’s this that’s finally too much: Hannibal starts to cry. Gratitude chokes his throat, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. 

Will misinterprets the tears and the pause, looking even more awkward. “Should I not have touched your stuff? I can go, I’ll put it back, please don’t cry.”

Hannibal shakes his head, and then works his throat a few times before he manages to find his voice. “Come here.” Will steps closer, and Hannibal reaches out and clasps the hand that isn’t holding his bag. “ _Thank you_.”

Will’s mouth quirks up on one side. “I didn’t want to leave you alone, and earlier you said you wanted me here, so I’m here. One of the nurses said she’d get me a pillow and a blanket if you were okay with me staying.”

“That chair won’t be comfortable for you,” Hannibal says, because it’s true. “You should get a hotel room.”

“Being in the hospital isn’t comfortable for you. I can compromise for one night. If they keep you longer I might not stay every night, but I’m trying to be optimistic about it.”

A part of Hannibal wants to suggest that they could share his bed, but he knows that would hardly be more comfortable, and with all the things he’s hooked up to it probably wouldn’t be physically possible. He’s taking enough advantage of Will’s generosity as it is, and he doesn’t really want the first time they share a bed to be for any reason other than that they both want to, even if that means it’s never going to happen. “Thank you,” he says again. “I… thank you.”

Will squeezes his hand before letting go of it to set the bag down and pull the chair closer to the bed. He takes Hannibal’s hand again as soon as he’s sitting down. “So, how are you holding up? They do any more poking and prodding while I was gone?”

Hannibal looks down, unable to answer Will’s questions honestly and unwilling to lie after what he put Will through today. “Did getting Kirk go alright? How upset is Emilia?”

Will shakes his head a little and sighs, although when Hannibal glances up to see his face he’s nearly smiling. “She’s not upset, she’s worried about you,” he corrects kindly. “Said it was nice to get the afternoon with the dog but that she’d prefer it never happen under circumstances such as these again. We’re supposed to call her when we find out what’s wrong.”

It’s Hannibal’s turn to sigh, leaning his head back on the pillow behind him. “I suppose that’s not unreasonable.”

“She likes you, for some reason. And you did scare her pretty badly.”

“I know.” Hannibal twists his free hand around his blanket and closes his eyes. “I despise being in this position.”

Will squeezes his hand, and Hannibal opens his eyes to see the sympathetic expression on his face. “I know. I don’t really like it much myself. But it is what it is, and it doesn’t do any of us any good to pretend it isn’t.”

“ _I’d_ prefer to pretend it wasn’t.”

Will’s mouth quirks up a little. “I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, sometimes we have to experience even unpleasant realities.”

Hannibal huffs a bitter laugh. “I know that, as well. It doesn’t make them any less unpleasant.”

“You’ll be fine.” Will squeezes his hand again. “We’ll be fine.”

“Do you think so?”

“All this worry doesn’t become you,” Will says, eyes soft. “I’ll make sure we’re alright.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and turns his head slightly away, suddenly fighting tears again. He swallows and squeezes Will’s hand too-tightly.

Will’s thumb gently strokes the back of his hand as he squeezes back. “Do you want to try to sleep? It’s been a long day for you.”

Hannibal wants to summon his customary irritation at Will’s overbearance, but it doesn’t come. It has been a long day, and he feels so miserable that it’s nice to just be cared for. He nods, and Will gets up to go find a nurse to bring him bedding.

Neither of them end up getting much sleep, but Hannibal feels better at Will’s reassurance. Knowing he’s not alone and doesn’t have to fend for himself in this is enough to steady him: Will spends most of the night holding his hand, and it’s like a firm anchor reminding him to not lose track of himself. Will will keep them safe until Hannibal is well enough to hold his own again. 

He loses his grasp on that and starts to panic a little bit when Will leaves in the wee hours to go let the dog out and make sure things are okay at home, but he reins it in with the knowledge that Will will return soon. And he does, less than three hours later. He knocks and then comes back in and takes Hannibal’s hand without hesitation, like it’s his right. Which, as far as Hannibal is concerned, it absolutely is. The warmth and weight of Will’s hand draws him back into himself and he feels immediately better. 

By the time the nurse comes to take him for his scopes he’s almost calm. Will isn’t allowed to come with him, but he promises he’ll be there when Hannibal wakes up, and so Hannibal allows them to put him under with minimal anxiety. He’s never liked anesthesia, and it’s worse when he’s in an unfamiliar hospital under a false identity. But Will is there. Will won’t let Hannibal be taken from him.

  
  


The first thing that Hannibal is aware of is that someone is holding his hand. Their hand is almost as big as his is, calloused from years of hard work, and very warm. He squeezes the hand experimentally, and it squeezes back.

“Hey,” says a lovely voice. Hannibal is certain he would rather listen to this voice repeat that one syllable than the most beautifully performed opera. 

Hannibal opens his eyes, and is struck dumb by the beauty of the man sitting next to him. He’s never seen anyone with such striking eyes. “You are exquisite,” he breathes.

Will blushes. “François!”

Hannibal blinks at him, and the last day finally clicks back into place as the fog clears. He’s in the hospital and he must be just waking up after his colonoscopy. “I’m not allowed to find my husband beautiful?”

Will rolls his eyes. “The doctor should be back any minute with their findings. How do you feel?”

“A little high,” Hannibal admits. 

“That shouldn’t last too much longer,” Will says, squeezing his hand again as the doctor comes in.

There’s a great deal of inflammation around the places where he’s healing, apparently, and the doctor says as far as they can tell that’s where the bleeding is coming from. It may be a nonstandard immune response, or it may mean a mild infection, and there’s no way to know for sure unless the infection gets worse. The bloody vomit seems to have been from an ulcer, likely caused by his frequent vomiting combined with the stress he’s been under.

They send him home with a stack of prescriptions: antibiotics and Prednisone to treat the intestinal inflammation, Prilosec for the ulcer, Zofran and Vicodin to make him feel better while everything is healing. They also give him even more stringent dietary instructions, and make him schedule an appointment with a gastroenterologist to monitor his progress. 

All in all, it could be much worse. He’s familiar with the medications and they should start working quickly, and there’s a good chance he’ll eventually be able to make a full recovery. 

They initially want to keep him another night for observation, but agree to send him home when Will promises to drive and keep an eye on him. It still takes a few hours for them to figure out discharging him, but they’re on their way before five, which really is fairly impressive. 

He’s very relieved to get in Will’s car, although it still isn’t terribly comfortable for his insides. 

“How are you?” Will asks as he pulls out of the parking lot. “And I am done tolerating bullshit answers to that question when it’s just the two of us, by the way.”

Hannibal nearly smiles. “This diagnosis isn’t terrible, and I’m relieved that nothing went wrong. The painkillers they gave me are helping, but I likely won’t begin to feel better otherwise until tomorrow or the next day.”

Will nods, although there’s something tight in his expression that Hannibal can’t quite parse. “I am also relieved. I’ve never seen you so agitated about anything.”

“Thank you for staying with me.”

“I was happier to be there than at home wondering what was going on and worrying.” Will sighs, and his face twitches. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“It was hardly an experience I’d like to repeat,” Hannibal says.

“I know. Just—promise me you’ll actually go to this doctor, and that you’ll tell me if you don’t start feeling better. Don’t lie to me, Hannibal. I can’t do this if you’re going to lie to me.”

“I promise, Will.”

Will deflates slightly. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But it’s hard to remember what I’m doing here when you won’t talk to me.”

“It’s hard to talk to you when you’re gone nine hours a day and I’m violently ill.” Hannibal lets out a breath and removes the anger from his tone. “I haven’t been avoiding you intentionally. I just have not been up to doing much of anything, and most of the time you aren’t around.”

“So I was just supposed to sit at home, even though you never did anything to indicate that you were anything but irritated by my presence?”

“I’m not irritated by your presence. I’m never irritated by your presence, Will. I haven’t been myself and I haven’t been certain how to interact with you. I don’t know why you decided to stay, or what it is you want from me.”

“I decided to stay,” Will says slowly, “because I couldn’t bear the thought of living without you again. I decided to stay because I realized that no matter how much I tried to move on, I never really feel right unless I’m with you. I decided to stay because I have missed you every single day for the last three years, and I didn’t want to have to do that again.

“What do I want from you?” he continues. “I want _you_. I want you to not tiptoe around me. I want you to talk to me like you always have, and act like you know better than me about everything so I can tell you where to stuff it, and make weird symbolic foods that shouldn’t taste half as good as they do, and make shitty puns about them. I want you to not feel like you have to hide parts of yourself from me.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Hannibal says quietly. “I haven’t been up to having a real confrontation with you and I just very much wanted you to stay.”

“You being yourself doesn’t upset me,” Will says. “I wish sometimes that it did. But I’d rather have you, authentically, than some weird construct you’ve made so I won’t get frustrated with you. I can’t promise you nothing you do will ever frustrate or distress me, but I’m not so much of an asshole that I’d leave this whole life we’ve made over you saying the wrong thing, or showing weakness. Where the fuck did you think I was gonna go?”

“You could kill me and then go anywhere. You could contact Jack and explain that I’d been keeping you against your will. You could do anything you wanted to me, Will. I don’t have anything, anything to make you stay.”

“That’s exactly why I’m staying,” Will says, nonsensically. “I don’t want to be with you because I have to be. I want to be with you because I _want_ to be. I’ve gotten the chance to see that I don’t have to. I had a life without you, and I was happier than I’d ever expected I could be before I met you. But I don’t want to be that man anymore. I want to be this one, here, with you. I just wasn’t sure if _you_ really wanted that.”

“I do,” Hannibal says, emphatically. “I want a life with you, Will.”

“Good,” Will says firmly. “That’s settled then. I’d apologize for yelling at you right when you got out of the hospital, but I’m pretty sure I have a free pass on not apologizing to you for the next several years at least, considering everything.”

Hannibal is startled into a laugh. “I suppose that might be fair.”

  
  


The cat is on the porch when they get home, though as usual she runs off the moment they begin to approach. 

Will notices Hannibal watching her, and smiles. “I put food out for her when I came home to let Kirk out this morning.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hannibal says as they walk inside, hoping that his gratitude comes through on his face.

Will shrugs. “I like cats too. Have you named her yet?”

“She’s just a stray cat.”

Will’s eyebrows go up, and he smiles. “Of course. You want me to make something for dinner? Or do you want to take a nap first?”

They end up making dinner together, because Will insists and because Hannibal is very tired. He can’t eat much of it, but at least what he does eat stays down. And it’s nice to cook with Will again. Things feel lighter between them, and Will doesn’t shy away from touching him—a hand on his hip as he passes him, on his shoulder as he reaches into a cupboard, a brush to his hand as he gives him a plate. They’ve spent more time touching in the last 30 hours than in their entire relationship previous, and Hannibal is pleased that Will doesn’t seem to want to stop any more than he does. 

Will stops him with a hand on his shoulder when he starts to clear the table after dinner. “Please don’t make me fight you about the dishes tonight.”

Hannibal’s mouth quirks into a smile despite himself. “Alright, but just tonight.”

“I’ll take it,” Will says. “Go lie down, you look like hell.”

“May I shower first, or has that been deemed too strenuous?”

Will huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “I think I can trust you with that one.”

“How magnanimous,” Hannibal says, but he can’t help smiling. 

He starts to turn away to head upstairs, but Will stops him with a gentle, “Hey.”

Hannibal stops and turns back, expecting Will to say something else. Instead Will steps forward and folds him into a tight hug. It feels like getting punched, and then Hannibal brings his own arms up to hold Will back and it feels like coming home. He tucks his head against Will’s and holds onto him, feels Will’s unsteady exhale against his throat and lets out a deep shaky breath of his own. They stay there like that for a long time, just breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you say “wait that was too easy” please remember there is another chapter and Hannibal has a limited perspective


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

The touching doesn’t stop. Hannibal is starting to get used to Will encroaching on his physical space whenever they’re in a room together—which is happening far more often than it had before. Will is spending more time at home, and more of his time at home is spent with Hannibal. It’s the best thing that’s happened since they came out of the Atlantic.

Hannibal starts to feel better, as well. The anti-nausea medication alone would have made a huge difference for him, and between that and the other medications reducing the inflammation in his bowels he’s feeling more like himself in only a few days. He’s not sleeping well, with the steroid, but that’s more than balanced out by the reduction in his pain. 

  


He’s been home from the hospital for almost a week when the cat comes forward to eat the food he left out for her while he’s still on the porch. He finds himself smiling as he goes inside.

The good mood doesn’t last, however: Will is acting strangely antsy all day, and it sets Hannibal on edge. He tries to ask if Will is alright, but all he gets in response is “it’s nothing you need to worry about.” Naturally this only increases his concern.

Things come to a head after dinner. Every other day this week, Will has taken Kirk on his walk and then come to sit next to Hannibal in the living room, touching lightly as they read or talk. Tonight he doesn’t take his coat off when he brings the dog back in, instead lingering in the doorway with a strange tension to his posture. It’s only been a few days, really, but Hannibal immediately misses the routine.

“I’m going out,” Will says. “I don’t know how late I’ll be.”

Hannibal feels it like a blow to the chest. Will said he wanted to be with Hannibal, but clearly he didn’t mean it in all the ways Hannibal did. The swell of nausea Hannibal feels is entirely psychological, but he still has to swallow before he can say, “Have a good night, then.”

Will gives him a tight smile and is out the door without another word.

Kirk has gone to curl up in his bed in the corner of the living room, and Hannibal sets his book down and watches the dog turn around three times before lying with his head on his paws. He looks so innocent, so uncaring, and Hannibal wishes he could have that same security. The knowledge that even with Will gone, things will be alright.

He feels like an imbecile for having even considered the idea that Will might reciprocate his feelings. He thought he’d learned that lesson years ago, but apparently all it took was a day of holding hands and one unprovoked hug and that hard learned lesson flew right out the window.

Of course Will isn’t interested in him like that. Of course Hannibal is never going to be enough for him, even though Will is so much more than enough for Hannibal. Of course, even with things better between them, Will is going to go out and spend the night with someone else. 

There’s no one but the dog there, and apparently there isn’t going to be any time soon, so Hannibal lets himself curl up on the couch and cry. He draws his knees up to his chest and hugs them as a shaking sob wracks his body. He’ll get this all out now, and then he’ll be able to put on a good face when Will gets home. Be able to act like everything is fine. He’ll be happy with whatever piece of Will Will allows him to have, and they’ll be fine. 

This will hurt like hell for a while, but if Hannibal is good at anything, it’s bearing pain. It still hurts less than losing Will altogether.

Dogs are, of course, emotionally intelligent creatures, and it’s not long before Kirk comes up and nudges Hannibal’s ankle with his nose. He uncurls enough to scratch the dog behind the ears, and softens slightly at the blissful expression on his face. He’s beginning to understand why Will is so fond of dogs—there’s something to be said for having a creature who rewards your care with guileless devotion. Petting him is grounding and soothing, and it calms Hannibal down enough that he feels up to climbing the stairs and getting ready for bed.

Generally Kirk sleeps in Will’s room with him at night, but since Will is gone and Hannibal is feeling emotionally vulnerable, he leaves his door open and isn’t surprised when he emerges from the bathroom to find the dog curled up on his bed. He’s grateful for the companionship as he tries to fall asleep.

He’s woken a few hours later by Kirk leaping over him to race out the door. Seconds later, the front door opens and Will can be heard setting something down and greeting his dog. “Who’s my good boy? You are!! You’re such a good boy for waiting for me!”

It does something funny to Hannibal’s chest to hear it: the same mix of possession and fondness he always feels when Will is obviously at home in their home, now tinged with something sad and sour. 

But then Will calls, “Hannibal? Are you awake?” and Hannibal finds himself getting out of bed and heading for the stairs as though pulled on a string.

“What is it?” he calls back as he comes down.

“Come here,” Will says, and there’s a strange sort of excitement in his voice, an animation he doesn’t usually have, especially not after midnight. “I got you something.”

Hannibal walks into the foyer and immediately finds himself questioning his earlier interpretation of Will’s departure this evening. Will looks absolutely lit up, almost wild, and he doesn’t smell like sex but of…. Bleach? 

Will doesn’t give him time to process any further than that before he’s walking forward, crowding Hannibal up against the wall, and kissing him. 

Hannibal’s brain shuts off for a few seconds. It takes him long enough to react that Will pulls back and starts to say something before Hannibal can get a hand up to cup his face and bring their lips together again. 

Will makes a small, desperate sound that Hannibal immediately wants to hear again every day for the rest of his life. The strange energy Will was displaying is being channeled into the kiss—Will’s hands seem to be everywhere, and he’s moving against Hannibal like he’d like to crawl inside his skin. Hannibal feels like he’s six steps behind and he’s not getting any opportunity to catch up, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll stay confused for the rest of his life if it means having Will’s tongue in his mouth and his hand on Will’s ass.

Eventually, they run out of air. Will separates them with a gasp, clinging. Hannibal buries his nose in the crook of Will’s neck and breathes there. He still smells like bleach, and underneath that arousal, and then… blood?

Hannibal raises his head to look Will in the eye. Will meets his gaze steadily, despite his frenzied breathing.

“Is that what you got me?” Hannibal asks.

Will laughs and ducks his head, eyes bright. “No. I didn’t mean to ambush you like that but—well. I might be a little keyed up.”

“I’m certainly not objecting.” Hannibal is still clutching Will tightly and Will’s grip hasn’t lightened either. “Where have you been?”

“When you were in the hospital,” Will says, tongue flicking out and wetting his bottom lip, “I overheard one of the nurses talking about the scar on your back. She didn’t sound like she recognized it, but….”

“You feared she would remember it.”

Will nods. “So I did some investigating. And tonight I—I know you would’ve wanted to come, but you’re not well and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, and I think I really needed to—well, I don’t know. I wanted to do it alone. To see if it still felt the same.”

“And did it?”

“It felt good. I liked killing her.” Will’s voice wavers slightly, but he’s clearly sincere. “It felt good to do it and it felt right to keep you safe. But I missed you.”

Hannibal kisses him again, and they lose a few seconds in each other's mouths. “Next time,” he says, breathless, leaning their foreheads together.

“Next time,” Will agrees. “I filled up a cooler for you. The rest of her is in the strait.”

Hannibal kisses him again, and then again after that. He’s overwhelmed by the whole situation: being allowed this intimacy after so long, the feeling of Will against him, the knowledge of what Will did for him, for them. 

Will returns his kisses enthusiastically, keeping Hannibal pinned against the wall and absolutely claiming his mouth. Hannibal dedicates himself to cataloguing the precise sensation of each new point of contact between them; he’s wanted this for so long, it would be a tragedy to forget any second of it. 

Will’s leg slides between his, and Hannibal can’t stop himself from rocking his hips forward, absolutely aching with arousal. Will just presses closer, shifting so that Hannibal can feel the hard line of his cock against his thigh, and Hannibal gasps, clutching Will closer and rutting against him. 

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” Will says, lips pressing against Hannibal’s with every word. “Sometimes it’s like I can’t think of anything else.”

“I’ve wanted this since the day we met,” Hannibal pants back.

“ _God_ ,” Will says, hips jerking more frantically against Hannibal’s. 

Hannibal snakes a hand between them and into the waistband of Will’s pants, and Will gasps at the touch. He’s so hard in Hannibal’s hand, and Hannibal loves it, loves the feeling of the blood pulsing just below the surface, knowing it’s all for him.

“Let me taste you,” he says, breathless.

“Please,” Will gasps, no hesitation at all. They turn around so that Will’s back is to the wall and Hannibal has space to kneel in front of him. “God,” Will says as Hannibal’s fingers make quick work of the fastenings on his pants, “you have no idea how much time I’ve spent thinking about you like this. About your mouth on me.”

Hannibal has to press the heel of one hand into his crotch to take the edge off at that, and a soft whine works its way out of his throat unbidden. Instead of answering he shoves Will’s pants and underwear down just far enough to free his cock and then takes him in hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the head before licking his way down the shaft. 

Will lets out a strangled noise as his cock jerks, releasing a little flood of fluid that Hannibal laps up eagerly, savoring the bitter taste. He wraps his lips properly around the head and begins to suck in earnest, grateful for the nausea medication that saves him from having to be overly cautious of his gag reflex as he takes Will into his throat and swallows around him. 

Will lets out a beautiful groan, clearly working hard to control the thrusting of his hips. Hannibal wants to make him lose that control. He pulls back and suckles at the head, licking at the slit and taking careful note of Will’s reactions. He wants to know exactly what Will likes and how he likes it, wants Will to be entirely his. He swallows Will down again, quickly this time, and Will lets out a shout, hips slamming forward to fuck into Hannibal’s throat. Better. Hannibal bobs his head in time to Will’s increasingly frenzied thrusts, swallowing and swallowing around the discomfort of it, ecstatic that Will is allowing him this, that Will wants this from him, that Will would use him in this way.

It seems like an eternity and like no time at all before Will’s thrusts stutter and falter as he comes down Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal swallows and licks at the head, only now becoming aware of his own frantic rocking against the hand pressed to his crotch. He’s so close, all it takes is one, two, three more presses against his hand and he’s coming, gasping and slumping forward to lean on Will’s hip as he shudders through it.

He comes back to himself with Will’s hand gently stroking his hair, and he takes a moment to just breathe and enjoy the feeling of that before he lifts his head.

“Guess we really needed that,” Will says, a touch of humor in his tone. “Are you okay?”

Hannibal nods, shifting back so he can stand. Will offers him a hand up, and he keeps hold of it, leaning against him again and tucking his face against Will’s hair. 

Will wraps his free arm around Hannibal’s back and holds him there for a long moment before he sighs. “Much as I’d love to keep you here, that meat shouldn’t stay in a cooler all night. Do you think you can stand on your own?”

“Of course,” Hannibal says. His voice is rougher than he expected, throat unhappy with the abuse they subjected it to. He steps back from Will and only wobbles slightly, which seems sufficient to satisfy Will, who nods and fumbles to pull his pants up before stepping away to pick up the cooler.

Hannibal follows him into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water as Will begins unpacking the cooler into the fridge. The mess in his pants makes walking uncomfortable, but it’s far from the worst way he’s ruined a pair of underwear in the last month.

“You can sort out what you want to freeze tomorrow, I think,” Will says. “Right now I’d like to take you to bed.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Hannibal says, feeling confident enough to properly tease for the first time since they’ve come here.

Will grins and offers him a hand again, leading him up to what Hannibal has hope will become their room.

  


Later, when they’re curled up naked in bed together, Will presses a kiss to Hannibal’s throat and says, “I would do anything for you.”

In the dark, with Will wrapped around him, it’s easier than Hannibal expected to clutch him close and say, “I love you too.”

  


* * *

  


The cat is waiting on the porch the next morning, and when Hannibal pours out her food she steps forward to rub against his leg. He reaches down to gently stroke her head, and thinks about names.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!!! Comments show you care. Find me on tumblr at [queerhannibal](http://queerhannibal.tumblr.com)!
> 
> [There’s also a post you can reblog](https://queerhannibal.tumblr.com/post/623744245297233920/have-you-ever-wanted-to-watch-hannibal-be-truly)


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